


Watched The Sunrise

by spockandawe



Series: For The Life, For The Day, For The Hours [4]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Books, Developing Friendships, Erik Killmonger Lives, Gen, Names, Post-Canon, Rehabilitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:48:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14064273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: You head out early, and the sun isn’t even up yet by the time you’ve found the library room. But does that help you? No. No it does not. At least it’s not likeyesterday,but here’s Falcon casually browsing along the bookshelves like it’s the middle of the day or something. Catchingyousneaking up here to look at books while everyone ought to be asleep.





	Watched The Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/172159192681/characters-erik-killmonger-sam-wilson-rating)

The day after you meet (pick a fight with) Captain America when you’re only trying to find a library, you say screw it to all the games and posturing and grand entrances and just tell your kimoyo beads to wake you up early and to take you straight to the library. It’s not even a real library, you know that, but the beads don’t seem to mind and it comes up just fine on the map. It only a couple doors down past where you ran into the Avengers, and if you’d just kept _moving_ yesterday— Would’ve been easier.

Whatever, you’re good to go now. Get in, get books, get out. You’ve got your own space, you’ve got movies and music and the net to keep you occupied. But seriously, you need to get your hands on something _physical_ soon or you’re going to go crazy.

The sun isn’t even up yet by the time you’ve found the room you’re after. But does that help you? No. No it does not. At least it’s not like _yesterday,_ but here’s Falcon casually browsing along the bookshelves like it’s the middle of the day or something. Catching _you_ sneaking up here to look at books while everyone ought to be asleep.

At least when he looks over and spots you, he just nods and says, “Hey, man.”

“Hey.” Easy enough. And you force yourself back into motion, aiming for a shelf that’s not too close to Wilson but not obviously far away. You’re not going to bolt. There’s only so many times you’re willing to let yourself get away with that. You’re going to play this cool and chill and pace it perfectly, and there’s nobody here who can throw off the flow of things for you.

You’re not really processing the titles of the books in front of you and try to focus. Christ, the shelf in front of you isn’t even in English, it’s all French. You move on, hoping the pause wasn’t too obvious, scanning the shelves until you spot books in a language that you can read. It’s closer to Wilson, but not that close. This room isn’t that small, maybe the size of a suburban bookstore, with shelves going up as far as you can reach on the walls and shorter shelves laid out up and down the middle of the room.

The sorting, you’re having trouble seeing how that’s set up. Things are grouped by language—mostly, you just tripped across a couple of books in Mandarin in the middle of a bunch of English novels—but after that, you’re lost. Author? Doesn’t look like it. Genre? _Is_ there a system?

You’re starting to get pleasantly distracted by the question when Wilson decides to speak up again.

“The offer stands, for the record.”

It startles you out of your train of thought. And then even when you replay what he said in your head you still have no idea what he’s talking about. All you can do is look at him blankly.

He raises his eyebrows. “Video games. It’s not just Mario Kart and Smash, Princess Shuri set us up with most of the major consoles, I guess, and plenty of games to go along with them.” He shrugs and looks back at the shelf. “I don’t know enough to say for sure, but I almost think she just bought us one of everything.”

He pulls out a book, looks at the cover, and then slides it back onto the shelf. He looks totally unconcerned, as if anything at all about this situation is _normal._ You can feel all the tension winding tight in you again, like it’s still yesterday and you’re just coming off of Hawkeye— coming off of _Barton_ trying to lecture you about what you’ve done. Wilson isn’t even looking your way, he’s just staying right where he is, leafing through books.

You aren’t playing this game. “So that’s it? We just pretending like nothing ever happened? No arguments _here,_ no disagreements, no fights, no nothing, come on in and join our happy little family.” You put the book you’re holding down, and it’s too hard, the noise is too loud, and you stop yourself from wincing.

Wilson turns back to you, his eyebrows raised again.

You’re not backing down. “What, you want to tell me that everything’s cool, like none of your friends has a problem with me? Save it.”

He’s still giving you that level look, and something in you twists with embarrassment.

Finally he says, “I’m just asking if you want to play video games.”

You look back at the books just so you can look away from him. “What was it, six of you here? Six Americans in this part of the building is what I heard. You’ve got plenty of people to game with, you can let this shit go already.”

There’s a pause. You hear him sigh, and you’re not sure if you were meant to hear it. “Five Americans and one Sokovian, if you want to be picky. Let’s try this again. I’m asking if you, emphasis on _you_ , want to play video games.”

“Why.”

“You always this prickly or am I just lucky? Look. You spent time stationed overseas, same as me. Think about people trying to deal, all the stress that just comes from living in a new place, language is different, food is different, landscape is different, all that. Now, think about getting care packages from home, or all the guys piling into a common room to watch a movie together. Even the silly shit like filming a music video together. Little bits and pieces of what’s comfortable and familiar, to balance off against everything that’s _not.”_

From the corner of your eye you can see him turn to you and spread his arms. “I’m trying to get that all that coping in place _before_ things go to hell. Cap has a problem? Or Clint? If things take a sudden turn south for _anyone_ here, if they bounce off the wrong person and things escalate— Going to be real easy for all this to blow up in our faces.” He pauses. “That includes you, for the record. We’re practically next door neighbors, and I assume that any American will get lumped in with _all_ us Americans in one big blame pile if things go wrong.”

 _Wakandan,_ you think. No, fuck it. “Wakandan, for the record,” you say, coolly. Are you saying that only because he called you an American? Maybe.

You can practically feel his eyes on you, looking you up and down. American clothes, American accent, American everything. Browsing the English books. You’re not even processing the titles in front of you, but like hell are you going to look over at him right now.

“Wakandan, then,” he says.

You relax, just a hair.

There’s quiet for a minute or two, and you’re actually able to find a couple books you might want to bring on down to your room, though you don’t want to commit quite yet. This is one shelf in the whole room, and there is _definitely_ no organization system in play here.

But of course, the silence doesn’t last. Wilson asks, “So what’s up with all that, if you don’ t mind me asking?”

You freeze for half a moment, then force yourself to keep moving, to keep your voice level. “All that what?”

“Being Wakandan versus American, sounds like there’s some interesting history there.”

You take a chance and glance over at him, but he has his back to you and is flipping idly through a book, looking completely relaxed.

“You don’t have to be a US citizen to join the military,” you say. This is a mistake. You’re boxing yourself into the stupidest corner by dancing around the question. You curse silently to yourself and try again. “US citizen, yeah. And Wakandan.”

You’re wound tense, waiting for him to push it or notice that difference in phrasing. But he just makes an interested noise and keeps flipping through his book. After a moment, he adds, “Came back recently, I guess?”

Okay, _no._ You slam the book you’re holding shut and turn to face him head-on. “Just go ahead and say whatever it is you’re trying to say, picking up the fight your friends tried to start. Say it right to my face and quit fucking around. Everyone else go their little moralizing digs in, why don’t _you_ have your turn next.”

He’s watching you too, and you see his eyebrows slowly rise as you talk. By the time you’re done, you’re breathing too fast, and you try to slow it down, force yourself into some sort of relaxation.

Wilson shuts his book much more delicately than you did and puts it back on the shelf. Carefully, he says, “Something I’m not sure you’re aware of. We don’t get much _news_ in here. Not many Wakandans coming by to keep us posted on current events.”

You shift, uneasy, not sure what he’s trying to get at. He’s watching you, looking for something, but you don’t know _what._

Finally, he sighs and says, “Okay, now I’ve gotten enough bits and pieces of information to know shit went down last week. But man, apart from those broad, broad, _very_ broad strokes, I don’t have any clue what you did or why.”

He mentions the _why,_ which is enough to startle you out of your immediate bitter reaction. And that gives you just enough breathing room to tamp down on the frustration and anger, take a step back, and _think._

Christ, they. Really _wouldn’t_ know what happened, would they. Now that you’re a little removed from the emotions of the actual conversation, you can go back over the information they had— and kick yourself for missing such an obvious point until someone else pointed it out to you. They knew you nearly killed the king, which was all legal as shit, thank you very much. And they knew you almost started a war. If that was all Barnes knew, then. _Fuck._

Wilson is just standing there, waiting while you think. _If_ Barnes knew more than he let on— But the others wouldn’t have had that information, just what he shared was new to them. It’s not a stretch to imagine Wakandans keeping things secret from outsiders. It’s the foundation of the entire goddamn country.

And how did you respond? You didn’t explain shit, not in a way any of them were going to be able to follow. You started a war? Well here, let me explain colonialism and skip everything between those two points. _Goddammit._ If you needed any more proof that you’re too exhausted to be doing this shit right now—

Screw it. You still stand by what you did, even if you’re pretty certain it’s fallen apart past recovery now. You skim past your dad, because just— No, you’re not doing that right now. But you lay out your plan, cool and reasonable, the _reason_ for your war, with all the pieces still making just as much _sense_ to you as they did before. You keep your voice calm and watch Wilson’s reactions, even if you don’t quite meet his eyes.

Doesn’t do you much good, you think he’s making a point of keeping his body language and face shut down and unreadable. Almost enough to make you laugh. _There’s_ a good skill, keeping that friendly, open attitude without managing to let a hint of judgment leak through. You wonder where he picked up that trick.

You finish with a flourish instead of letting the story trail off into pathetic quiet nothingness. “And here I am,” you say, with a smile that might even read as sincere, forcing your body language to stay relaxed.

Wilson nods, and just says, “Huh.”

You’re not sure whether to be offended, upset, or embarrassed. You cross your arms and lift your eyebrows at _him,_ and say, “That’s it?”

He shakes his head. “Nope, not doing politics talk right now. I’m on sabbatical.” You can feel yourself starting to frown and shift in place, but he lifts a hand to stop you. “I get it. ‘Kay? I am not passing any sort of judgment in either direction, and that’s a deliberate decision, but I _get_ what you’re saying.”

You feel yourself— deflate. It feels like you should be having to defend yourself. You’ve got plenty of points to respond to any argument you can think of, but that doesn’t do you much good if he isn’t going to actually argue with you. And he’s not agreeing either. Which— You’re not expecting much, at this point. It’s not a disappointment. The disappointment is that the plan fell apart and it didn’t take _you_ with it. But after so long of having to keep everything to yourself, the idea of laying it all out and having someone agree with you— It has some appeal.

And you think that Wilson can see some of that on your face. He shrugs with a wry half-smile, and says, “Maybe another time. But that’s a rule I laid down for myself. One of those preemptive coping mechanisms. I can pass along those basics to the others, if you want, but I’m not getting into a debate over it.”

Well you aren’t going to make a scene—and make yourself look like an idiot—trying to corner him into taking a stance right here and now. You twitch one shoulder and turn back to the shelf. “That’s cool. Maybe another time.” Does another time really even matter right now? It’s never going to happen, and T’Challa’s already making the political moves to make your ideas look like pointless, thoughtless violence. Two weeks ago you would have jumped at the chance to debate particulars, but now, you aren’t sure you even want to have the conversation.

And you can practically feel Wilson’s eyes on the back of your neck. Abruptly, he says, “Steve is going to do that research, you know.”

You glance over your shoulder towards him. It takes you a moment to catch up. “What?”

He’s grinning. “That assigned reading you gave him. Pretty rough course of study, giving him two big keywords and telling him to go from there.”

Something in your gut squirms, and you can’t tell if you're embarrassed or pleased. _Captain America_ is going to go reading up on the things you told him to read. You force yourself to sound casual. “It’s a big topic. Plenty of shit to worry about past that.”

Wilson grins. “Fair enough. But it’s pretty ruthless throwing the poor guy out into the wide world of the internet like that. I offered to vet his sources to make sure he doesn’t fall down some conspiracy theory rabbit hole.”

You realize you’re smiling too. “Well as we all know, thousands of years ago, this one black scientist created the white race just so they could be evil and rule over the world, so start him off with those facts and go from there, right?”

He laughs out loud. “Yakub? You read up on all that conspiracy theory shit? I almost want to send him one of those sites just to see his face when he reads it.”

You... kind of want to see it. “Play along, act like you take it totally seriously, see how long you can keep a straight face?”

“You know it.” He’s still chuckling as he turns back to the shelf.

Wilson already carrying a few books under one arm, and you belatedly realize you still haven’t picked out anything of your own yet. You kind of want to head out now, so you can leave on a decent note this time, but. You’ve to to pick _something_ to read. It’d be real nice if there was any kind of order to how these were laid out, but no such luck. You can feel the tension prickling right between your shoulderblades, waiting for _something_ to go wrong and ruin this.

Screw it. You grab a handful of Lloyd Alexander books. They’re short, but you can come back up here anytime. And it’s some real retro fantasy reading, you don’t think you’ve touched any of these since you were a kid.

“See you,” you say to Wilson as you turn to go, doing your best not to look like you’re running from anything.

“Later,” he says, only glancing up for a moment from the book he’s holding. "Come by again sometime. You still have to catch me up on the last ten years of prosthetics research."

And you’re almost to the door when he adds, “Wait, quick question.” You turn to face him again, trying not to look like you want to bolt. “What did you want to go by? Erik? Or I think it was… N’Jadaka?”

You should have expected this. You should have been expecting this question, you _have_ been expecting it, but you’ve been avoiding thinking about the answer as hard as humanly possible. Wilson is just watching you, as calm and relaxed as before.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you admit, “I don’t know.”

And then before you have to hear an answer, you turn and walk out the door and down the hallway, moving out of earshot as fast as you can, and heading back down to the quiet of your room.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/172159192681/characters-erik-killmonger-sam-wilson-rating)


End file.
